


Talk, Then Act

by thefirstreason



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, M/M, S4 fix-it, the part of the hug we didnt see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9807656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefirstreason/pseuds/thefirstreason
Summary: Sherlock would always be there for when John needed him.This is a S4 fix-it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fix-it for the end of TLD, more like the scene we never saw between the crying the deerstalker. Just a heads up, if you are an adamant Mary disliker an aspect of this telling may not be for you as John acknowledges his feelings for her here. Thanks for reading :)

John sobs slowly ebbed, he’d lost track of how long he had been crying into Sherlock’s shoulder. There was a large steady hand supporting the back of his neck, and a head rested on top of Johns. He tried to ignore the swell of shame in his stomach from laying himself open in such a visceral way.

Sherlock had taken him in his arms when faced with his friend's breakdown and beyond the humiliation, a part of John was thankful to have someone with him this time. Night after night he spent in a drunken fog, crumbling into his whiskey glass was the only thing he knew how to do right anymore.

Exhausted and hazy, he moved his hands to rest on Sherlock's hips. It was a tentative reciprocation, an acknowledgment of Sherlock's support, something like this couldn't come easy for a man like him.

John was mildly surprised to feel a squeeze back in turn. Like a young vine finally being given a ladder to climb up, Sherlock wraps closer into Johns body, arms squeezing them chest to chest. His steady breath ghosted down John's ear and into the collar of his shirt.

He lifted his head and opened his bleary eyes and was faced with a pale smooth neck. He breathed deeply--mint body wash and Sherlock's own scent flushed his senses. John had gotten hints of this smell before, but now that it was a direct line filling his head his brain and body tingled. He smoothed his arms further behind Sherlock and flexed his fingers into his back, hearing Sherlock quietly sigh into the comfortably silent space.

John thought that what happened next was perhaps becasue he was weak, feeling exhausted and delirious from tears shed. He could be feeling soft and sentimental from the way Sherlock had accepted his body into his own and told him it was going to be alright. Maybe it was the loneliness that picked away at him every night or the guilt from assaulting the man who had proven more than enough times that he was human, a good friend and deserving of much more. Most possibly it could be the years of stifled emotions that he was no longer strong enough to fight off; they beat and beat at his sternum demanding to be set free disguising themselves as a heartbeat.

Whether it was one or an accumulation of those things, John didn't fight the force of magnetism that pulled him up on the balls of his feet to help place a chaste kiss on the warm dry skin of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock noticeably froze, his breath arresting in his chest and John felt long fingers dig a little deeper into him.

Despite the muffled cries of ‘What the hell are you doing?’ in the back of Johns mind, he placed another kiss just an inch higher on that neck--he felt the air in Sherlock's lungs leave in a gust. The hand at his nape gripped tighter and John pushed against it, pulling away from Sherlock's chest to give himself a chance at a longer stretch of skin. He kept his eyes downcast and kissed the edge of Sherlock's jaw, feeling coarse hair scratch under his lips.

“J-John…?” It was barely a breath, a hesitant question forged from alarm and confusion. It was small and unsure. 

John had never been good with words, he didn't want to open his mouth to explain with sentences things he couldn't even construe in his own head. He didn't want to want to hear his rasped voice fumbling with affection that had grown, peaked and died again and again for years. He had always been a man of action and chances, and now he wanted to take the one chance he never did--so John tipped his face up and made a move to press his lips against Sherlocks.

John felt the length of Sherlock's shaking fingers press against his mouth and stopped.

“No, don’t…” Sherlock's voice trembled.

John shivered at the warmth breath that curled around the sides of his face and nose. He opened his eyes and his stomach quickly dropped. There was pain etched in the lines around Sherlock's eyes, deep crevices worried into his forehead and his eyes screwed shut with a lip bit harshly between teeth. He released a bated breath, rocking forward to softly to rest forehead against forehead, his nose just barely brushing Johns. The hand remained, a barrier between them.

John closed his eyes at the ache of rejection, he could feel his skin stretching under the tracks of dried tears.

Sherlock's breathing was shallow and unsteady. “We can’t-“ His throat caught and he swallowed, “This can’t happen now.”

John would have fought to deny making such a pathetic noise at the back of his throat then. Sherlock tightened the grip on his shoulder.

“John,” He said quietly, but as steady as he could manage. “Right now, you are in mourning. You are overwhelmed with grief and regret and any-“ He hesitated long enough for John to hear his own heart hammering in his ears, “-affection you are feeling may be… misdirected.”

John started to shake his head, but as much as he hated to admit he knew Sherlock was at least partly right. The last few weeks of his life had been hell, everything was muddled and bloody and sometimes he didn’t even feel like a person. He still hadn’t brought himself to move any of Mary's things, there is still a half glass of water she placed on her nightstand from the night before she died that John couldn't bring himself to touch. He chokes back sobs when he looks at Rosie and see’s Mary there, staring back at him. The house they had owned, the daughter they brought into the world; he was grieving over the loss of the life he fought to make when he had nothing left inside himself to make it with. Sherlock died and John decided to live, ignoring the familiar call from the chamber of his gun. He found somebody, using the structure of trust and connection Sherlock had helped him form to reach out and try to find comfort in another person once again.

He had loved Mary. In the beginning he loved her for accepting the shadow of a man he was then, he loved her for filling the gashes within himself John thought would never heal and giving him back the energy to live through every day. When Sherlock returned from the dead things got complicated, the roots between them grew back their stem and leaves and it had budded so precariously. John knew that there was still something there, but the time for it had passed. He already moved on, built his new life from rubble and the idea of tearing it all down again was too harrowing. Then, after all of the effort and self-assurance, Sherlock was shot, Mary's past was revealed and John resignedly thought ‘Of course. The choices I make, the people I love. I brought this on myself,’ he had already dug this hole and made his vow so he settled. In the end, he still loved her for what she had done for him and what they had created together, but those feelings had gotten ripped and torn through so extensively he longer knew in what ways.

Now with everything he had built in his life once again mangled beyond recognition with deep swells of loss and pain cycling through him every day, the feelings for his best friend that he dared not acknowledge for years were screaming to be heard.

The pain was a catalyst, urging his heart to desperately scratch and claw for any kind of solace or light that he could let lead through this thicket of misery. He needed to he held, he needed another heartbeat to sync with and he needed warmth to melt the plaque accumulating in his veins.

It registered that a tear streaked it’s way down his flushed cheeks once again, he took a deep measured breath through his nose when he felt one of Sherlock's hands cup his face, long thumb swiping under his eye.

His own hands came up to Sherlock's shirt and gripped tight, pulling his body in closer. A strangled noise came from Sherlock, his breathing coming quicker and harsher from his quivering lips. John dared not open his eyes but he sensed the way his own desire echoed perfectly with Sherlocks; the air around them was thick with apprehension and yearning.

“John, I…” His voice croaked. John imagined what would happen if he just moved that hand--if Sherlock pressed back against him.

Sherlock's nose slotted closer into his face and John felt an added pressure on his lips, his heart panged after the short moment it took to understand what Sherlock had done.

Sherlock was pressing a fervent kiss to the backs of the fingers sealed between them. Johns' heart was racing and tears again ran down his face--his chest ached in a new and terrible way.

He heard a small wet noise come from Sherlock's mouth as he pulled back and took a brittle breath. Their foreheads remained together. John smoothed his hands up the front of his chest, gentling his touch to let Sherlock know that it was okay.

Those fingers finally lifted from Johns' mouth, they stuck momentary and Sherlock brushed a fingertip softly along them before reaching both of his hands back and gripping Johns neck and shoulder blades, drawing him close; curls tickled against Johns ear and neck. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso in return, sealing their bodies together.

It felt like fresh air, it felt like drowning, it felt like being too full.

“Soon,” Sherlock's voice was wrecked, “when you’ve got yourself more sorted, and we’ve… talked about… what this…” he swallowed, “is... then.” The word was heavy and expecting, “Then.”

John nodded against his shoulder, he couldn't think of a rational enough reason to disagree. When had Sherlock become the voice of reason and delayed gratification? What other things had grown within this man that John had missed while he wasn’t paying attention? The idea of discovery just added to the impatience John possessed to finally burrow his way deep into Sherlock's heart and find comfort with him there. To curl into him and never leave the safety of his ribcage.

They held each other for a while longer just to hold and feel for all the years they hadn't allowed themselves to.

After minutes passed like hours or maybe seconds, they gradually drew apart. Both of their eyes remained downcast, John swiftly wiped the remaining moisture from his face and noticed a new wet patch on Sherlock's shirt. They lingered for only a moment before Sherlock slowly started towards his room. John called out for him, daring to finally meet those gorgeous multi-toned eyes.

They both looked like terrible, eyes red and swollen and faces drained of energy. The corner of Johns' mouth curled weakly at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Think you’re forgetting something.” The words crackled in his throat. Sherlock scrunched his brows in confusion and a hint of weariness. “It's your birthday,” The man in question head cocked, “and on birthdays, you usually get cake.”

Sherlock slowly shook his head and began to protest, “That’s not-”

John raised his hand to quieten him and slid the phone from his back pocket out and scrolled down his contacts, clearing his throat before pressing a name to call.

“Hey Molly, it’s me,” He found strength in his voice again, though still rough. “Change of plans, we’re all going to go to that bakery on Melton, you know it?” Sherlock's expression was now incredulous, mouth hanging open, “Mhm. Okay, see you soon.” Sherlock was staring at him dumbly, standing halfway into the kitchen. Johns' lips twitched with amusement and he walked over to him, gesturing his chin back towards the bathroom.

“Let's clean up, we look like shit. Then we’re going to get some cake and try not to feel too sorry for ourselves.”

“John?” Finally, he speaks, “Is that really what you want to do? After… all of this? Everything we’ve just-”

John shook his head in dismissal, "It’s all fine, Sherlock. I think we need a little something to celebrate for a change, yeah?” The man studied him thoroughly, reading every muscle movement and expression on Johns' face, “Do you want to?”

After a second, Sherlock pressed his lips tight and nodded in consensus.

“Right, good.”

They took turns over the sink to wash up and worked on their coats at the door. Sherlock attempted to lighten the mood with the deerstalker, and John allowed a moment looking back into the room to notice that for the first time in a long while he could even grapple with the idea of calm, finding some resolution in the pattern of the wallpaper and indents in the chairs.

They met Molly at the cake place and sat at a small wooden table. None of them could agree on one single flavor so they all proceeded to get individual slices. John had the chocolate, Molly the lemon curd and Sherlock's sweet tooth indulged in a round of extravagant looking sticky toffee pudding. The serving size claimed two to three people but the man himself challenged the suggestion.

Molly was not surprised that it was his birthday, she even had a small present tucked away in her bag; a box of microscope slides and covers, Sherlock smiled and thanked her, saying that he was almost out. John asked how she knew when even he didn’t know, she hesitantly let on that she had to learn a lot of Sherlock’s information when fabricating his death and he ended up wishing he hadn't asked. He felt a tendril of residual anger curl in him but he reminded himself not to let it get to him then.

They had said that they were going to talk. That was just one of the things that needed to be talked about.

John told Molly when they were finished that if she didn’t mind he actually wanted to take her shift tonight. She didn’t protest, and John inwardly cursed when Sherlock and him were caught giving each other a certain kind of look--of expectancy or hesitation John didn’t know. She probably caught on a bit.

They walked back to Baker street together in silence and probably in closer proximity than they needed to be. The day was chilly and clear, the tips of their noses turned slightly pink with the breeze. Sherlock worked the key into the front door and glanced back at John for a moment before opening it, he was nervous, and a little bit jittery.

He took off the funny hat and hung it on one of the hooks within the doorway, shaking out his curls with his fingers. John watched him slightly amused and maybe a little besotted.

He cleared his throat, “I- um, Sherlock?” The man in question turned to look at him, pausing in the entryway, “I just wanted to say thank you. For earlier, with me,” He gestured purposefully to his face suggesting the state he was in, “what you did was uh- good. Couldn’t have been easy.”

Sherlock's expression softened, his lips curved up just slightly.

“Anything for you, John.”

Suddenly John felt flush with staggering emotion for the man in front of him, and with a pulse of adrenaline and not much warning for Sherlock or himself, he stepped close and took one of Sherlock’s rough cheeks in hand and placed a lingering kiss on the other side of his face. Sherlock inhaled a shallow gasp. John quickly stepped back, embarrassment beginning to pinken his ears.

“I-I know we’re going to talk first,” He rushed, “I just… I don’t know. I don’t know. Thank you.”

Sherlock stared at him, blinking. Processing. John grew uncomfortable under the detective's piercing gaze, his chest stomach muscles relaxing when Sherlock finally morphed his mouth into a small coy smile.

“Good thing it was just the cheek this time,” There was a light quality to his tone. “I don’t think I would have had the willpower to stop you again.”

John balked, mouth popping open at the blatancy of the tease and then it curled into a smile of his own and they all of a sudden were both chuckling, standing together in the entryway and it felt like one of the most incredible moments either of them had experienced with each other.

Johns laughter humbled when he felt a chilly hand grip his own and pull it forward. He looked up and Sherlock nodded towards the stairs.

“Shall we go then?” Sherlock questioned.

“Yeah,” John replied. “Let’s go.”


End file.
